19 Years Later
by Naruana
Summary: The Boy Who Lived died nineteen years ago. Nobody can bring the dead back, not even with the most powerful magic.


**PURITY IS POWER**

**POWER IS STRENGTH  
>STRENGTH IS SECURITY<strong>

Everywhere I look, the mantra is there. Banners hung from the sides of buildings, stretched across the avenues, etched in the sky with emerald fire. When I close my eyes, it's there. I've only been in this city two nights and already it's in my dreams. It's a wonder anyone could come here without breaking. My time might be running out.

Welcome to London.

This place—it's less of a city than a tool. A living, malevolent tool. You can feel it, like a noxious vapor, seeping into your skin, poisoning you a little more with each breath. It's genius, really: the towering buildings, carved from black stone; the rigid streets, only allowing you to go where _they_ want you to go; and of course, the mantra. Everywhere, the mantra. London has become a machine: in go the people, out come the subjects.

If they ever come out at all.

I hurry down the road, my cloak pulled tight against the icy mist that hangs about the city like a permanent feature. One would almost think it was a meeting place for dementors—the blank faces and hollow eyes of each person I pass seem to confirm as much. But the New Ministry controls them; keeps them away from the people. Or at least, the ones in London. Here, at least, there's the illusion of safety. It's an illusion that's been carefully crafted and carefully maintained. It sends a single message: So long as you obey, you're safe. But only if we allow you to be.

I had heard things were bad here. Worse than the States, even. I couldn't quite believe that. The place I had come from still resembled a warzone; here, at least, the cities have been rebuilt. There's a semblance of order, of civilization. Here, at least, dragons don't scorch the ground with clockwork regularity. I haven't seen a single dementor here, despite the weather. Here, at least, I can step outside without constantly looking over my shoulder.

Well. Almost.

I duck my head and do my best to slip past the pair of Aurors coming my way without attracting attention. They don't even notice me, are deep in conversation. Something about a Quidditch match. I can hardly believe they still play games over here. Quidditch was never as popular back home as it was here, but I know plenty of folks that would give their wand arm just to have a moment's rest, sit back, watch a game.

They really don't know how good they've got it.

Then I see them. Bowed, broken, dressed all in grey. By the way they move, I can tell invisible chains bind them. By the way they avoid looking at anything but the ground, I can tell what they are. Muggles, among the few that survived the Purge. Marked as less than human, forced into slavery—house elves had it better than them. At least these ones seem in charge of their own minds. Most muggles were put under the Imperius Curse nineteen years ago and haven't had an original thought since. Still, as they shuffle past me, shivering like whipped dogs, the Imperius Curse seems like it would be a blessing.

They put up a good fight, when their time came. Muggles still outnumbered us then, something most of the magical community didn't know. They were strong, too, and clever. They had to be, to survive thousands of years without magic. They invented computers smarter than any one of us, put humans on the moon, unleashed bombs that contained the power of the sun. All of it, through the use of intellect and sheer will. The New Ministry underestimated them, might have lost, if all the muggles' technology didn't go haywire in the presence of magic. In the end it was too late: the Ministry had convinced half the magic population that muggles were the enemy, that the witch burnings were about to start up again. In the end, they nearly destroyed themselves. The Ministry turned their own weapons against them, set off their bombs while they were still underground. Half the States and a good chunk of Russia are little more than toxic craters now. I grew up on the east coast of the States, one of the few habitable places left. Not many muggles remain in the States; the ones that do stay away from us. As far as they're concerned, we're the enemy.

Can't say I blame them.

We could've fought harder. Could've kept going, even after he died. We did, for a while. The resistance didn't fall apart right away—a new leader stepped up. Longbottom. Some said he was the Chosen One all along, that everything else had been a distraction. That _he_ had been a distraction.

In the end, it didn't matter. Longbottom fought and fell, and the resistance fell with him. Scattered. By the time the war came to the States, this place had been completely conquered. No one seemed to have any fight left in them. Not that we did much better. Half the government wanted to strike a deal, the other half wanted to blow up the world and take You-Know-Who with it. Neither option worked out in the end. We gave up. We lost hope. And He won.

I intend to rectify that.

I can see my destination now, glittering through the rain like a crystal palace. King's Cross, center of transportation for the New Ministry. Brooms have been banned, portkeys are by request only, and apparition is heavily monitored. They found a way to control it, not just here but throughout the whole world. As soon as you pop away they pick up on it, zero in on your exact point of arrival. Any elicit apparitions are met by a whole flock of Aurors. Try to pop into a restricted section, and the results will make splinching look like a mild case of wartcap powder. King's Cross is my only option, the only way to get where I'm trying to go.

And I've still got a better chance of curing a werewolf.

The guards meet me at the gate, hard-faced and dull-eyed. Demand identification. I pull out my travel visa, affecting the weariness of a traveler twelve hours too tired to be intimidated. Inside I'm squirming like a jar of leeches. My contacts assured me the forgery would be identical to the real thing, a mirror image. _If they find something wrong, they've made a mistake,_ was the exact claim. Judging by the pinch of their brows as they study the visa, it looks like they made a mistake.

"What's yer business here?" demands one, squinting at me from beneath the brim of his cap.

My answer was designed to be so dull as to deflect any follow-up questions: "I'm a researcher from the Royal Academy of New York, studying the effects of a mild nuclear winter on the growth-rate of adolescent Mandrakes. You see, my hypothesis is that—"

"Mandrakes?" repeats the partner. His tone suggests he's never heard of them. Maybe he hasn't. As it happens, the effects of a mild nuclear winter have put Mandrakes on the brink of extinction.

I sigh. "Yes. The Mandrake, or Mandragora, is native to the European climate. It's very picky about the conditions in which it matures and, as such, is likely to be—"

"Yeah, yeah, alright, fine." The visa is shoved back into my hand. "Just don't lose that. Proceed to Verification."

I nod and move along, following the line past the gate. I'm stopped again at the Verification post.

"Extend your wand arm," recites the guard.

I comply, rolling up my sleeve. He taps my forearm with his wand; there's the slightest prick, and when he draws his wand away, a bead of blood clings to the tip. He places it in a small tray and watches, his expression bored. After a moment the tray emits a soft hum, the guard stamps my ticket, and I'm waved on.

Here, at least, there was nothing to fake. Which is lucky for me; pure-blood status is next to impossible to forge. If that little tray hadn't sung its song, I'd be halfway to a refinement camp by now.

I find my platform just as the train is pulling up, a steel contraption that hisses steam like a sleeping dragon. The cars open and passengers pour out, moving with the same automated shuffle I've come to recognize as a sign of too much time spent in London. The porter checks my ticket and lets me into the car. I slip into the first empty compartment I find and slide the door shut. I'd rather avoid any companions.

Through the window I watch people mill about on the platform. There are few greetings, few hugs or cheery welcomes. Everybody just goes about their business, a slight stoop to their backs. No better off than the muggles, I realize.

This is what I'm fighting for. Not the triumph of good, not freedom, not even survival. It's humanity. We're all losing it, bit by bit. After the war, they say You-Know-Who got a little spooked. The resistance came too close to beating him. So he took more precautions, went even further than he had before in his quest for immortality, ultimate power. He wasn't human before the war ended; God know's what he is now. But that's where we'll all end up, sooner or later, if something isn't done.

I'm not saying I'm the right person for the job. I'm not the Chosen One, back from the dead. I'm just one of the few left. We can't be picky, don't have time to wait for a savior.

We'll have to make one.

The train pulls away from the platform, chugging out of the station. The city flies by in black and grey streaks, cold lights caught in the droplets of rain on the window, reflecting like distant stars. We wind through the heart of the city, past the Ministry building: a black spire, soaring high, higher than the clouds. Banners longer than some of the buildings are tall hang from the facade, waving and unfurling slowly in the wind. The bold letters flash, reinforcing their message tens of times a minute. The mantra.

**PURITY IS POWER  
>POWER IS STRENGTH<br>STRENGTH IS SECURITY**

Not long until we leave the city behind, and already I feel better. The rolling countryside is like a reviving potion to my soul. I can feel the poison of London, of the New Ministry, being expelled from my system. Soon the rain is left behind as well. Shafts of golden sunlight pierce the clouds, casting warm pools on the grass, through the trees. It's almost enough to put me in a good mood.

The trip is a long one, but not quite as long as it should be. The place I'm headed is a restricted section. No trains go there. I'll be dropped off a good hour from where I need to be; from there, it's a long hike through the wilderness. Dangerous, too. Outside the cities the Ministry does little to control magical beasts. Dragon populations are on the rise, giants control nearly every mountain, and of course, dementors prowl every moor, every hill and ravine, looking for prey. Once I finally reach my destination, I'll have to figure out how to get past any border spells and enchantments without setting off an alarm or turning myself inside out.

But that comes later. For now, I need to sleep. While I can.

My dreams are uneasy. Turbulent. When I awake I have a crick in my neck and it's pitch-black beyond the windows. The train jolts, shudders, begins to slow. The lights of the station pull into view, and with a final jolt the train comes to a stop.

I slide open my compartment door, move down the car with the rest of them, step out onto the platform. The night is cool and damp, but the air feels fresh. A sickle moon hangs overhead, wreathed in dark clouds. Crickets sing and bats flap, but it all feels wonderfully alive. _I_ feel alive, and so does everyone else. I can see the change in them. They chat, they smile, they even laugh. It's easy to imagine we left all our troubles back in London, that nothing terrible is going on this very second. If I close my eyes, breathe deep, and concentrate, I can almost believe it.

Almost.

From the station I move into the town, a small hamlet on the border of a dark wood. The trees hold no malevolence tonight, but it's not hard to imagine the difference it might make if that moon were full. Werewolf attacks have been on the rise. Wolfsbane potion is strictly controlled by the Ministry, attributed to a shortage of ingredients, which was in turn attributed to attacks by rebel groups. In truth, werewolf outbreaks only increase the atmosphere of fear. So long as the Ministry holds the Wolfsbane, they can offer protection. So long as they can offer protection, the people are complacent.

A narrow street takes me to the town square, and what looks like the only inn. _The Augurey Nest_, says the sign. Warm light spills out into the dark square. It looks comfortable, safe. I head inside.

Small as it is, it's packed tonight. Nearly every seat is full, from the bar to the tables. There's a sense of community, comradery, that's rare to find these days. Everyone knows everyone, and a stranger like me is sure to stick out like a sore thumb. Yet when I enter, I'm treated like one of their own. Welcomed to a table, brought a round of firewhiskey and a plate of shepherd's pie. I don't realize how hungry I am until I'm asking for another.

The night is spent trading tales, singing songs, and consuming ridiculous amounts of alcohol. I know I should head up to a room, get as much sleep as I can. But I'm having too much fun. Fun. It's almost an alien concept. It's addictive, more intoxicating than the firewhiskey. Time passes in disjointed segments. By the time I'm in bed I can barely recall how I got there. By the time I'm dreaming, I don't remember falling asleep.

I awake to a pale, clear dawn. The bedside clock tells me it's nearly noon. I've slept far too long, and a pounding head scolds me for it. I can't waste any more time.

After a quick shower I head downstairs, check out, tip the innkeeper an extra sickle. Outside I get my bearings, begin my walk out of town. A farmer pulls over on the side of the road, asks me how far I'm going, offers to take me as far as he can. I accept, get in his car, and we follow the road out of town. I notice we steer clear of the forest; I don't bother asking why.

After the village has disappeared behind hills and bends, we come to the farmer's home. He drops me off with a farewell, and I walk on. It's a long way; if I make good time, I just might get there by dawn.

The day grows colder as the sun grows higher. I wrap my cloak tight. Eventually the road deviates from my path, and I leave it behind, crossing a wide, muddy moor. As the sun begins to sink a fresh drizzle starts, and I risk casting a wide Impervius charm to keep me dry. The Ministry doesn't monitor every minor charm and spell, but close as I am to a restricted section, I run a greater risk of gathering the wrong kind of attention. I'll have to keep any wand-work to a minimum.

At dusk I find a rocky outcrop and take a quick rest. I light a fire with matches and cook some sausages squirreled away in my cloak. The smell is enough to set my stomach growling, and I don't bother waiting for them to cool before digging in. A swig of pumpkin juice washes them down, and I'm left feeling surprisingly satisfied. I sit for a bit, listening to the owls hiding in the darkness and watching the moon shine from behind clouds. I'm snapped out of a trance I don't remember falling into by a distant howl. Not a werewolf—hopefully—but it still sounds less than friendly. I grip my wand for comfort and head out into the night.

The ground becomes soggy and a thick fog rolls in. I stumble more than once, plunging knee-deep into a fetid pool. Wandering into a bog wasn't part of the plan, but it's too late to double back now. The Four-Point Spell keeps me on a true heading, and helps me ignore the ghostly lights that appear in the fog, just out of reach, hopping this way and that, enticing. Following them would be walking straight into a grave. Just keep going.

Hours pass. Eventually I find my way out of the bog, entering a thick forest with rocky hillocks and twisted roots just waiting to trip me up. The moon sets and a thicker darkness falls. A deep chill begins to set in, and soon I can't keep from shivering. Against my better judgment I summon a small handful of blue flames and store them in my pocket.

The ground begins to rise, and I make my way into a valley. Steep mountains loom on either side, and here I finally pause. The giant clans run amok in this part of the country, slaughtering anyone who wanders into their territory. Even with my wand, I wouldn't stand a chance. It would be suicide to go on—better to turn around, find a way around the mountains. But that could take days.

I take a deep breath, and press on. With the moon long since set, it's nearly impossible to see where each step will land, but I don't dare risk a light. I find a small stream after nearly falling into it and decide to follow its banks. With any luck, it'll lead me out of the valley.

All at once the ground shakes, and a horrible stench wafts my way. Even in the darkness I see something huge to my right, lumbering towards me, a monstrous shadow. I don't know if it's seen me, and don't really plan on finding out—I turn and run as fast as I can.

The giant roars, an earth-shaking, guttural sound. It bounces off the valley walls, leaving my ears ringing. The ground begins to heave and I know it's after me. Without stopping I send a killing curse over my shoulder. Hopefully that'll slow it down.

Branches whip my face, catch at my cloak. I stumble over roots, bounce off trunks. Behind me I can hear the giant tearing through the trees like toothpicks. It's gaining—I can hear its ragged breath, feel it pushing against me like a foul wind. The thought that I might die tonight suddenly enters my head, clear as day.

And then I'm falling, tumbling down a pit that might as well have opened up beneath me. I bounce off sharp rocks that cut my cloak and slice my flesh. I come to a hard stop on a damp, muddy floor and lie there, trying to catch my breath.

The giant is still raging above me—far above me. Everything seems to shake as it stomps and howls. Rocks and dirt tumble down the sides of the pit, and I cover my head. Eventually the giant gives one more frustrated roar, before its footsteps grow further and further away.

Falling down a pitch-black pit hardly seems like good luck, but tonight, I'll take it.

I'm halfway to my feet when I realize I'm not alone. I still can't see anything, but I can feel them. Watching me. And now I can hear them, too. Breathing as quietly as they can, quick, rapid breaths, full of fear.

_"Lumos."_

I get a split-second view of huddle figures, eyes wide, before one of them charges me with a rock. I dodge out of the way and level my wand on the man. He scrabbles around like a wild animal, dressed in rags, face all but obscured by hair, and begins to circle me, rock held high.

_"Just stay back!" _he snarls, eyeing my wand with a combination of fear and hatred. _"Stay back or I'll bash your skull in!"_

"Joel, no!" The voice comes from behind me, a woman. "He'll kill you! Please, w-we don't want any trouble!"

"Neither do I!" I reply. "Tell Joel to put down his rock or I'll knock him on his ass!"

The woman's voice suddenly becomes calm, forcedly so: "Joel. Put it down. Please. Just come here."

Joel keeps his eyes on me. "This monster'll kill me as soon as I do. Me an' all of you."

"I'm not here to kill anyone." I take a breath, and slowly lower my wand, hoping Joel is more frightened than violent.

He doesn't lower the rock. I'm beginning to think I misjudged, when the woman calls out to him softly. After a moment his whole frame relaxes, and he lowers his weapon. Lowers it, but doesn't drop it. He slowly walks past me, giving me a wide berth, never taking his eyes from me as he heads deeper into the cave.

A woman and two children sit against the far wall, huddled around what looks like a camp. There's an empty fire pit lined with rocks, as well as several mats of thins sticks and grass. Empty cans and wrappers litter the rock floor. Joel joins them, kneeling down and putting a protective arm around the woman. Glaring at me the whole time.

"Thank you," she says softly.

"What're you thanking _him_ for?" Joel snaps.

Her reply is cool and measured: "For not killing all of us."

Maybe it's the fall, but all at once it clicks for me. "You're muggles."

She nods. "We escaped the snatchers years ago. Hid best we could. Finding this place was a miracle."

"We don't want anything to do with you or your kind," Joel says in a low voice. "Just leave me and my family alone. Go on your way."

I shrug helplessly. "I don't know if you were aware when you moved in, but there's giants out there. I can't just walk out the door."

The woman nods again, and I see a small smirk twitch her lips. "We know. It's a good deterrent, even for your kind."

That was an understatement. "Is there any other way out of here?"

None of them respond, but their silence says enough. I wait patiently. I catch one of the kids—a small girl—eyeing the light of my wand curiously and give her a small smile. She retreats behind her mother.

"There's one way," Joel finally says. He points behind me, to the far wall. "The cave continues through the mountains, until—"

"Joel, no!" the woman hisses. "You can't send him there!"

"Send me where?"

"He'll be fine, Kathy," Joel says evenly. "I'm sure that stick offers all the protection he needs."

Kathy frowns, but says nothing. I'm not quite so satisfied. "Where does the cave lead?"

"Other side of the mountains. There's a town. Deserted now—mostly, at least. Nothing human lives there." He shrugs. "I guess you'd be used to that."

I'm not sure what he's implying, but I don't press the subject. "What's this town called?"

Joel shakes his head. "No idea. Went there once to look for supplies. Wasn't worth it. Damned creatures all over the place, and a bunch of wild magic still trying to protect the shops, even the empty ones. Nearly got myself killed."

"You should steer clear," Kathy says. "As well as you can."

I nod. "Thanks. I'll do my best."

She nods back. Joel says, "Go on, now. Leave us be."

"Of course." I begin to turn, then pause. None of them wear more than a few rags, and I can see the kids shiver. I kneel down and slowly reach into my cloak. They all stiffen, but I keep eye-contact as I carefully produce a handful of blue flames. I deposit them on the cave floor. "These will keep you warm. You can pick them up without getting burned. They should last you a while."

"We don't want any of that!" Joel snaps.

I shrug. "Then just let them die. All the same." I turn and head for the far wall. The light of my wand reveals a dark crack, just wide enough for me to squeeze through. Without looking back I edge my way inside, wand held high.

The passage stays narrow for a few meters. At a few points it seems I might get stuck, and I can't banish the idea that the muggles might have intentionally sent me to my death. But it's either this or giants. Somehow, I think I'll have a better chance in the cave.

Eventually it opens up into a more comfortable tunnel. I move carefully on the slick and uneven floor, wary of pitfalls and lurking shadows. The air grows cold, then stuffy and warm. There's no way of knowing how deep I am, or how far I've gone. If this really does lead me through the mountains, then it's likely to be a long journey.

The cave ends suddenly. I climb a steep but short ramp, and then I'm standing in a wide mouth in the side of a mountain, looking down its flank. The sun has begun to rise, and in the early light I can see a town below. Even from here I can tell it's deserted, been dead for a long time. The buildings sag and lean, nearly obscuring the alleys. A main road runs through it, leading to what looks like an abandoned train platform. Beyond, a thick forest climbs a broad, shallow hill, up, up, until—

My breath catches in my throat. I wasn't really sure what to expect—I had never actually seen the place, only heard descriptions and seen pictures. But there it is, rising in the distance like the bones of the mountain itself. Fractured spires, crumbled walls—it's a wonder the place is still standing.

Hogwarts.

The last major battle took place here. After that—after he died—the resistance could do little more than launch minor attacks and run. Even with Longbottom leading the rebels, they spent most of their time fleeing. As a symbol of the resistance, Hogwarts was abandoned. You-Know-Who declared it a restricted section and the Ministry set up a new school in London. There, young wizards and witches are indoctrinated from the flexible age of eleven. They really don't stand a chance.

I carefully begin to make my way down the mountain. With each step I expect to set off some perimeter alarm or get obliterated by a powerful hex. It's likely the Ministry already knows I'm here; if so, all I can do is hurry.

At the bottom of the mountain I follow the road into town. The place is deathly still; even the birds have fallen silent. With each building I pass, I can feel eyes watching me. Whether they're real or not remains to be seen.

The forest seems to have encroached on the village. Already one half of it has been engulfed in wild growths, the buildings toppled, with trees bursting right through some of them. I catch glimpses of enormous webs between the trees and decide to avoid going in there as much as possible.

Something stirs to my left and I spin around, wand at the ready. A sign hangs above the door of what looks like a tavern, the words long since worn away, only _Hog_ still visible. The sound of movement comes from inside. I watch the doorway, edging down the road.

There's a bleating sound, and a two-headed goat trots through the door. The head nearest me fixes me in its uninterested gaze, before it heads back the way I came, apparently at the behest of its twin. I relax, watching it bemusedly. Hopefully that's the worst of the "creatures" the muggles were talking about.

Eventually the road veers right, leading me away from the town and up towards the castle. Here the forest has overgrown it completely, so that the path is all but lost beneath the gnarled roots. I move through it as quickly as I can—the idea of lingering among these trees is not attractive.

Beneath the thick branches, everything lies in twilight, even with the rising sun. I come across more webs, burning my way through them. Something definitely shadows my progress, although I can't see or hear it. I try to appear as unthreatening as possible, but can't help but keep glancing over my shoulder—once catching sight of a long, hairy leg retreating into the shadows.

I move faster.

It's a relief when I finally come out of the trees, leaving the forest behind for a grassy lawn. The castle sits at the top of the hill, a broken silhouette against the clear sky. I continue on, moving more carefully now that I'm out in the open.

To my right I pass what looks like the remains of a small shack. Half of it has been obliterated, a huge crater gouged into the ground. Here, too, the webs have been spun, although someone or something seems to have been regularly burning them away. As I pass something stirs within, and a thin plume of smoke rises from the pit.

I crest the hill, coming up near an ancient-looking willow, and immediately dive behind its trunk. The willow creaks, waving its branches threateningly, but it seems too old to do anything more about it. And an angry tree is the least of my concerns at the moment.

I peer carefully around the trunk. The castle isn't far, but in the space between the front door and myself are three giants. By the looks of things they're sleeping, but I dare not try and slip past them. As I watch one of them snorts and rolls over, bumping into his comrade, who promptly thumps him on the head without waking.

There has to be another way in. I reach into my cloak and pull out a tattered piece of parchment. It took me five years and a small fortune to track this thing down—hopefully it was worth it.

I unfold the parchment and tap it with my wand, muttering, "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."

Thin lines of ink spread across the surface like creeping vines. In seconds a map has been formed, a perfect representation of Hogwarts—or so I hope. It seems to have adapted to the decay of the castle, depicting all the crumbled walls and towers. On the grounds, beside a tree marked "Whomping Willow," I see a small dot labeled with my own name.

An impressive bit of magic.

I study the map, looking for a secret entrance, anything. Several passages seem to lead from the village into the castle—they could make good escape routes, if I ever make it inside. Finally I locate a boathouse down by the lake, with a passage that connects directly to the castle. It seems to still be intact.

Moving as carefully and quietly as I can, I slip around the trunk of the Whomping Willow. It gives me one good thwack on the head as I hurry away, moving quickly in a low crouch. I slide down the side of the hill, coming to the shores of the lake. The water is still, the color of steel. It looks frigid. From where I'm standing I can see the boathouse—the shore ends in a cliff before reaching it. I'll have to swim.

With a backwards glance at the slumbering giants I wade into the lake. The water bites through my clothes, chilling me to the bone. I secure my wand and stuff the map into my cloak, before diving forward and swimming out deeper. I follow the curve of the shore and the base of the castle, until finally reaching the boathouse. As I pull myself up out of the water, I swear I feel something pass beneath me.

A passage leads inside. I force the door open and follow some stairs up a ways until I come to another door. I listen for a moment—nothing seems to be moving. Drawing my wand, I brace my shoulder against the door and slowly push it open.

I come out into a large entrance hall filled with rubble. To my left are the immense front doors, barely hanging on their hinges. A double-staircase leads deeper into the castle to my right—half of it seems to have been blown away. Directly next to it is another large doorway. I check the map—the room beyond is marked "Great Hall."

It isn't quite so great anymore. The space lies in ruins. Shattered tables and piles of rubble are scattered everywhere. The ceiling is all but gone, letting the sun shine down into—

There. The sight stops me in my tracks. In the center of the Hall lies a pile of rocks. No random rubble, but purposefully arranged into a long barrow. Around it is a bed of white flowers—lilies.

They left him where he died. At the end of it all, he was left to rot with the castle. When You-Know-Who won, _he_ ceased to be little more than a boy. Just a body. Everything he stood for, the entire resistance, seemed to die with him. You-Know-Who didn't need to take the body, didn't need to burn it or display it. By simply leaving it here, He declared his triumph over his mortal enemy.

But somebody buried him. Sometime after the castle was abandoned, someone had built this grave. I approach slowly, feeling a sense of reverence that goes beyond any magic I've experienced. The grave is simple, but beautiful. The rocks were arranged carefully, each one placed with a sense of purpose. The lilies hadn't been placed but grew from the floor, sprouting between the flagstones, shining white in the pool of sunlight. Perhaps strangest of all, someone appears to have deposited piles of mangy old socks around the grave.

I stand over it, suddenly unsure of what to do next. Unable to do what I came here to do. It feels like a violation, a disservice to the boy who already gave everything. Something catches my eye—a pair of round glasses, set at the head of the grave. I reach out for them—

Something moves behind me. I whirl around, wand at the ready. There, at the entrance to the Great Hall, stand a group of small, strange figures. They all seem to be watching me, large round eyes shining. I slowly step back from the grave, but don't lower my wand. After a moment they move forward, approaching the grave. They step into the light and I see them for what they are—house elves. Some are wrapped in bits of cloth, others in towels, at least one in what looks like a tapestry. Some wear nothing at all. Each of them carries a misshapen sock, poorly made, but clearly sewn by hand.

The house elves all but ignore me as they silently gather around the barrow. One in particular seems to be their leader—an ancient-looking elf, with large, bat-like ears and a nose like a spade. He looks at me with milky eyes, and then carefully lays his sock on the grave. The other house elves follow suit, one after the other. None of them say a word, and I wonder if they can speak at all—then the leader says in a deep, croaking voice: "Master has set us free."

The other house elves repeat the phrase, softly. Then, as one, they turn and file back the way they came. The leader remains behind, watching me carefully. Unsure of what to say, I simply give him a slow nod. After a moment he turns and shuffles after the rest. One of the younger ones hangs back to help him walk.

I'm left alone with the grave once more. I look down at the socks, then at the glasses. Carefully I reach out and take them, placing them into my cloak. Then, after a moment's hesitation, I kneel beside the grave and begin to shift the rocks. I work slowly, careful not to damage the grave or crush the lilies. I place each stone on the floor, one at a time, until a small hole has been opened in the barrow.

The light catches stark, white shapes. After a moment I realize what I'm looking at—bones. I place my wand into the hole and tap one of the ribs. It breaks cleanly away with a small _snap_. I mutter words of apology and withdraw the rib, placing it carefully beside me.

It should suffice.

I replace the stones, repairing the hole. Soon the grave looks completely undisturbed. I pick up the rib and get to my feet. After a final look at the grave, I turn and leave the Great Hall.

At the foot of the staircase I check the map, locating a bathroom one floor up. I carefully climb the cracked stairs and pause at the top—a suit of armor is hopping carefully along on one leg. The empty helmet turns to look at me, before it disappears through a door.

I head up one level, passing through corridors until I locate the bathroom. The floor is completely flooded, many of the sinks torn from the walls. But the mirrors are still mostly intact. I find the cleanest one and place the rib on the shelf beneath it. From my cloak I withdraw a flask.

I'm not entirely certain if this will work. As far as I know, nobody has tried it with material from a dead source. It might not work completely, or it might kill me outright. At this point, there's no sense in not trying.

I open the flask and set it on the shelf. With my wand I break away just the tip of the rib and place it in what remains of the shattered sink. Carefully I grind it up with a piece of broken porcelain and scoop the powder into my hand. Taking the flask, I pour the powder inside. The thick grey concoction begins to bubble, before turning a bright gold. Crimson stars leap from the surface. I take a breath, and down the potion.

Fire twists my insides. My head feels like its splitting open and my vision blurs. A sharp pain in my bones brings me to my knees, and I catch my chin on the sink. I fall to the floor, coughing and choking. My limbs shake and twist.

It hurts. A lot.

After what seems like hours, the pain subsides, and I slowly get to my feet. I feel unsteady, uncertain of how to move my body. My vision is still blurred—I reach into my cloak, which is now too big for me, and withdraw the glasses. I put them on, and can instantly see better. I stare into the mirror.

It wasn't perfect. The jet-black hair is streaked with white, and the lightning-bolt scar stretches down the right side of his—_my_ face, down to my chin. But everything else—it matches the pictures perfectly. The bottle-green eyes stare back at me, full of life.

The Boy Who Lived died nineteen years ago. Nobody can bring the dead back, not even with the most powerful magic.

But symbols don't die. And those can be more powerful than any spell.


End file.
